


Intense

by neevebrody



Category: Thoughtcrimes/Dawson's Creek Crossover
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody





	Intense

Vince tries to ignore it. In fact, he tries to ignore it every time. He's even come into the den, but he doesn't feel like watching television – it's not like he doesn't know what's going on in the other room. Brendan's more comfortable handling this chore alone and Vince has learned to let him. But he can still smell the gun oil from here and the clink of metal on metal has him thinking about Brendan's hands: watching them work, and the quiet intensity he wears while doing it.

He's seen that intensity in action, of course. Just that once, but that had really hit home how great Brendan is at his job and how much he loves it. Since then Vince has always felt safe with Brendan. He turns his head in mid-thought, to make sure that's the faucet he hears. Going into the kitchen, he catches Brendan right as he turns around. He's still scrubbing at his hand with a towel and the oil scent is still heavy in the air. It's crazy, yes, but Vince has always had a thing about watching Brendan clean his sidearm.

Taking the towel from his hands, Vince tosses it in the sink and leans in taste Brendan's lips.

"Vince?"

He doesn't answer, just takes Brendan's hand with both of his and backs them out of the kitchen. Vince stops at the dining room table and lifts Bren's hand, turns it and brings it to his mouth. He unbuttons his own shirt while licking the pad of each fingertip. He undoes his jeans and lowers the zipper as he takes the fore and middle fingers into his mouth. Brendan's throat works; Vince watches him try to swallow. Brendan's eyes are locked on his fingers as Vince sucks, his own lips slightly parted as if he's searching for something to say.

Vincent wriggles out of his shirt, slips Brendan's fingers from his mouth and presses Brendan's hand to his chest. He moves it back and forth, sighing as the warmth slides over his nipples. He pushes it down over his stomach to where his jeans fall open. Brendan's eyes follow it as if an invisible tether connects them.

"Vince?" he tries again, lifting his other hand to slide beneath the waistband, curving over the top of Vincent's hip.

Vince leans close. "Work me, Bren," he whispers and nips at Brendan's earlobe.

He leans back on the table and lets Brendan slide his jeans and undershorts off, bare legs and feet hanging off the side. Bracing on his elbows, he watches Brendan slip those nimble fingers around his semi-hard cock and stroke him from base to head, pulling the foreskin up and back. Brendan's eyes are dark now with something familiar, something that makes Vince burn low in his belly. He takes a deep breath and chews his bottom lip as Brendan wraps the other hand around the base, both hands now, stroking and twisting, getting him harder and harder.

Brendan sweeps away a little pearl of moisture with his thumb and Vince is almost sorry. Sorry that Bren didn't bend down and lick it away, but… hands… Brendan's hands. So good… and so slow… and it makes Vince crazy. His gaze travels past those hands to Brendan's wrists and forearms, uncovered by rolled blue Oxford sleeves, then on to that same kind of intensity written on his lover's face, a determined, single-minded need to please, to do whatever Vince wants… and Vince knows he doesn't deserve that, but he's damn thankful for it.

Brendan's starting to breathe a little faster, going with his own rhythm and Vince works himself into the same pace, his pulse, his breath. The heat and friction are a deadly combination. Mix that with the look on Brendan's face as he's bent over Vince's cock –like he's waiting for it to shoot liquid gold – and Vince is so close he can taste it. He wants to give, to let his head fall back and just go with it, but he can't take his eyes off Brendan's hand, just the one now, working Vince tight and close - short, quick pulls.

"C'mon," Brendan demands in an awed whisper, "c'mon, Vince."

And it's just that little shudder in his voice that does it… springs that taut coil at the base of Vince's spine and hijacks any thoughts he has of doing this gracefully… has him bending forward and bucking into Brendan's hand, white streaks behind his eyes because there's no way in hell he can keep them open. It's that damn good. And he keeps them closed until he feels something wet along with his own slick and Brendan's hand.

He squints to open one eye and catches Brendan licking him clean, has to swallow a dry lump at the site of Brendan's tongue lapping at his fingers. And then that smile — a tiny crack in that intense facade. Vince reaches up and cards his hand through Brendan's hair… Christ, that smile.


End file.
